He makes a sound that’s not quite a sigh, then scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. My pack digs into my ribs. The world tilts sickeningly.
The ease with which he lifts me sends an involuntary flutter through my stomach that has no business existing while I’m this close to death.
"My equipment?" I start.
"I grabbed it."
"The data drives, there are three of them in the front."
"I counted them. Three drives. Two notebooks. One solar charger with a cracked panel. Medical kit, organized by injury type. Protein bars, approximately 2,400 calories remaining."
The precision of his inventory is unexpectedly attractive. A man who notices details, who counts things, who organizes by category. My kind of person, if I weren't currently dying on his shoulder.
He carries me through the woods in silence. The precision of his inventory startles me almost as much as the rescue itself. I watch the snow swirl behind us, erasing our trail. My research. Six months of observation. Ben's meticulous notes. Liam's tracking data. Everything we died for, bouncing against a stranger's back.
The darkness takes me before I can ask his name.
two
Finnegan
Thewomanpassesouthalfway to the cabin. Easier that way.
People talk too much. Ask questions I don't want to answer. Form opinions about my life. This one was already starting—the data drives, the apologies that weren't apologies. Quick tongue even through hypothermia. That takes a particular kind of person.
Unconscious, she's just variables to manage. Hypothermia: strip wet clothes, wrap in furs, fire. Ankle: compression, elevation, monitor swelling every twelve minutes. Dehydration: fluids ready when she wakes. Simple inputs, predictable outputs.
I lay her on my bed close to the fire and strip her clothes. Practical. Necessary. I don't think about it beyond the steps. Wrap her in furs that smell like smoke and cedar. Check her temperature by touch. Build the fire to exactly the level that will warm her without risking overheating.
I glance at her sleeping form. She's objectively attractive. I can acknowledge this factually, the way I'd note the symmetry of a leaf or the proportions of a well-made tool. High cheekbones. Strong features. Even unconscious and hypothermic, there's something... compelling about her face. The way her brow furrows slightly, like she's solving problems in her sleep.
Attraction is a variable I haven't accounted for in three years. I don't intend to start now.
As she sleeps, I go through her pack. Her notebooks are fascinating.
Three different handwriting styles. One small and precise with margin notes questioning every conclusion. This is her handwriting, I can tell from the consistency with the pack labeling. One in all capitals with jokes scattered throughout—"zombie rush hour" "dead man's curve" "the walking dead-on-time."The third draws diagrams, connects dots with colored lines showing migration patterns, tracks correlation coefficients in neat columns.
Migration patterns. Not random wandering. Actual patterns, tracked over months, documented with scientific rigor I can appreciate.
I spend an hour reading while she sleeps. Her pulse steadies. Color returns to her face. The swelling in her ankle remains concerning but stable.
The handwriting that makes jokes also draws little cartoon zombies in the margins. Tiny faces on shambling bodies. One wearing a party hat with the caption"birthday boy."I don't smile, but I note it. Someone who could make jokes while documenting death is someone who understood survival isn't just physical.
Someone who thinks like I do. Patterns and data and dark humor to cope with the horror. The realization is uncomfortable. Interesting. Potentially dangerous.
This woman is a problem.
Not just because she's here, disrupting my systems. Because part of me wants her to stay.
She’s not a threat, but she’s valuable. People will look for her. My mountain, my silence, my systems are all about to be disrupted by one researcher who couldn't watch where she stepped.
I should take her to Larkspur when she wakes. Two days' travel if the weather holds. Drop her off. Return to routine. That's the logical solution.
She opens her eyes after midnight. Her brown eyes are sharp despite the fever haze. She takes in the cabin: handcrafted furniture, organized shelves, single chair, single plate.
"Did you save my research equipment?"
I stare at her.Most people would say thank you. Or where am I. Or who are you. Or please help me.Any of the normal responses that make social interactions predictable.
